


Reunion

by Just_Rocket_Science



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Eönwë may have a crush, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I was too lazy to add the accents on Eonwë's name after a point, Mild Angst, One Shot, Other, Reunion, Scars, angbang definitely happened but it's not mentioned much here because Mairon is still in shock, fellas is it gay to tenderly heal your old best friends, mild romantic tension of you squint, post Dagor Dagorath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29847606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Rocket_Science/pseuds/Just_Rocket_Science
Summary: Eönwë finds someone he never thought he'd see again.
Relationships: Eönwë & Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of an experimental fic, I was messing around with description and such. Hopefully it's not too bad! I love these two with all my heart, both as friends and as a ship, so honestly it can be read either way here.

They have won. Eonwë can hardly believe it. His heart leaps for joy as he soars across the plains of the battlefield. The landscape below him is arid, a pool of dark ash and dust, scoured by dragon fire. It is unclear, where the blackened land ends and where the midnight sky begins. They swirl into one another, a world of darkness, utterly at contrast with the melody of delight that thrums through his veins. He dives, twirling and darting with flashes of bright feathers, their gleaming white hue dulled by the dusky night that hangs over the land. The smell of hot blood hangs in the air. It is metallic, sharp in the way it accosts the senses, each breath of wind that teases his feathers thick with the scent. It does not bother him as much as it perhaps should. He dives, and the wind tears through him, trembling fingers caressing his face, catching him as he levels out. Its teasing murmurs are pleasant against the sweat that clings to his skin from the exertion of battle. He feels the drops evaporating, cooling him down, draining the strained flush from his skin. It feels like cold ice pressing against him. He flutters down, a sigh of well deserved relief on his lips. Plumes of dust billow out from under his feet. They bolt away quickly, caught in the grasp of the wind, before they can sully the shine of his metallic shoes. His knees are sore from the landing - it is difficult to see where the sky melts into the land in such darkness, and he almost got lost in it, caught up in the shadows of the air where the earth flips onto its head and the ground rises to be a ceiling, where you can dive until you reach the dusk ridden place where atmosphere converges with Void and the gentle kiss of wind under your wings is no longer enough to resist the pull of gravity. There at the end of all things, where you can dive no further. Morgoth dwells there now. Trapped, for all eternity. That dark creature will never hurt a soul again. 

Eonwe is not sure why he landed here. Something called him, perhaps, in the depths of his subconsciousness. The lingering fragments of a torn fea, curling like tattered, silken fabrics through the air. They wind around his hands, soft like thistledown, drawing him gently forwards. The mountain wind was cool. It hurt the shreds of fea. They were oddly delicate, little tears forming in the soft silk. Eonwë gathered them close to his chest. He would protect them from the wind, though he usually found its rushing murmurs so comforting. Perhaps the owner of this fea was somewhere around here? They must be a victim of Morgoth; the Valar would never allow something like this to happen. The suffering that would have to be endured for a fea to be shredded so utterly… the mere thought was a clash of discordant notes, a cold pit of horror that was best not explored. Eonwë held onto the tattered silk protectively. When the light hit the usually invisible shreds just right, they gleamed with soft embers. A fire Maia, then. Poor thing. Of course the mountain wind hurt it, so cold for a creature accustomed to the burning heat of Aule's forges. Eonwë resolved to find them quickly, before the damage done became irreparable. The stone of the mountain was spiked, rough against the soles of his feet. In some places, it was slick with blood. The Maia must be wounded. Eonwë quelled the worry rising in his stomach, and followed the trail of blood. Its scent was almost overbearing. Sickening, even, though such things had never bothered him before. He slipped unsteadily over the jagged mountain surface, stumbling from one thorny grey boulder to another.

The blood led concerningly far up the mountain, until the grey rock gave way to snow. It was more dangerous here, where sharp outcroppings were obscured by a veneer of soft snowflakes. Cold swirled in the air, the scent of fresh frost nipping at the tip of Eonwë's nose. To his relief, no snow fell from the sky. It was not all that cold, either, except a gentle frigidity that hung in the air. The scraps of fea in Eonwë's arms had fallen limp. They lay draped over his hands, dead but for soft flutters that haunted at their torn edges. Eonwë quickened his pace.

He found that the trail brought him to a cave. It was almost hidden by heaps of snow, yet there was the evident break in the freezing mounds where someone must have dragged themselves through. Eonwe peered inside. His heart dropped, words tumbling unbidden out of his pale lips.

“Sauron?” It was, undeniably, Sauron who lay curled up inside what barely counted as a cave, more of an indent in a large outcropping, than anything. The torn shreds of his fea, that Eonwe clutched in trembling hands. But he was clearly injured, and Eonwe would be damned if he let a fellow Maia die when he knew he could prevent it, enemy or not. He rushed forwards. Sauron had changed much from how Eonwe remembered him, yet he was somehow still achingly familiar. He was still beautiful. Though it was different than before, when he had been filled with vigour and energy and a wide eyed eagerness to discover the secrets of the world. Now he was beautiful as a lament was, his features smooth yet somehow twisted with sorrow. His eyes were closed. The shallow rise and fall of his chest was a gorgeous sight; he was still alive. But perhaps not for long. Eonwe knelt down beside him, a song of healing already spilling from the tip of his tongue. He had never been truly expertized in the ways of medicine, but being caught amidst the iron claws of war tended to result in much knowledge being accidentally picked up. The shreds of Sauron’s fea seem to sense that their other half is near, because they flutter with excitement, humming soft songs of times long gone, glittering with golden stars and leaping stripes of harmless fire appearing in short bursts in Eonwe’s arms. He drapes them carefully over Sauron’s unnaturally still form. His voice grows gently louder, echoing off of the walls of the cave in an eerie call and response, and the silken ribbons seem to melt away, knitting back together with the fea that they had been torn from. Each note that spilled from Eonwe’s throat was another stitch, tightly drawn so that it would not break, yet rough, jagged, sung by one who was on the verge of desperation and was doing all that he could.

Sauron’s breathing had evened out. It was too faint, still, but perhaps he could hang on a little longer now. Eonwe crouches down beside him, a sudden exhaustion nudging at the edge of his mind. He was no healer, did not know how to draw on energy other than his own, or how to weave delicate stitches that would fade into gold with time. He had done his best. He reaches out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Sauron’s ear. His hair was darker now, fading into a deep vermillion after decades of hiding from sunlight, where before they had played everyday in the light of the lamps, and their glow had bleached his hair into a dark strawberry blond. Eonwe swallows down the thick lump that had formed in his throat. Sauron is still injured. The trail of blood had come from a deep gash in his side, perhaps inflicted by a spear or an especially large arrow. Eonwe finds himself wavering at the sight of the wound. Not at the blood, no, such things were all too common in war that he found himself, to his disgust, utterly desensitized to the thought of violence. The problem was that his clothes covered the gash. Eonwe sighs, murmuring a quick prayer to Manwe that Sauron would not wake up abruptly halfway through and bite his head off. His quick fingers unbutton the fabric with an easy deftness. Somehow, for all his diligence, Sauron had not thought to wear armor to a fight. That was strange. Out of character, for one who prided themselves so much on their foresight. Eonwe frowns. He pulls back the shirt from Sauron’s pale skin, and almost jumps back in horror, a sick feeling rising in his chest. Scars. So, so many of them, that marr the soft skin that Eonwe remembers touching. There is a truly ugly one at his neck. It must have torn out half his throat. And his back is covered in unmistakable whip marks. A brand is seared into his chest, a three peaked mountain range. The skin is ugly and reddened. It smells of acrid magic, and enchantment, preventing the wound from ever truly healing. Perhaps these are what pains Eonwe the most. He has his own fair share of scars, of course. But there is only one who could have whipped Sauron, who could have branded him so, and Eonwe remembers with trembling breaths how Sauron spoke so highly of him. _‘I cannot expect you to understand, or to join me in leaving,_ ’ he had said, _‘but I hope you know that I will be happy there, happier than I have ever been in my life. He loves me, I think.’_ Was this the happiness that he had been hoping for? It only made sense, of course. The so-called love of Morgoth could be nothing but a bitter promise. The Dark Vala did not _love_ , as Eonwe once had overheard Manwe spit in a rare display of emotion. Despair, the knowledge of the full extent of how wrong he had been, settled like a lead weight in his chest. He had thought… he had truly thought that perhaps Mairon would be able to find relief there, away from the people he had always despised with an ardent passion. He had seemed so convinced. So hopeful. And Mairon had never, ever had a lapse in judgement before, not once in his life. He was the smartest person Eonwe knew. He could not resist himself any longer; he gathered the fire Maia’s still form into his arms, cradling his head while blinking back horrified tears. Guilt weighted his veins. He should have known that it was a lie. He should have convinced Mairon to stay. He should have done something, should have told someone-

“Eonwe?” Shit. Sauron had opened his eyes, and they were heartbreaking. Red, when they should have been green, icy when they should have been filled with warm excitement, pools of lava strung with rivulets of gold, a fiery liquid that was somehow colder than the bite of the mountain air. It burns Eonwe, and he flinches away. His name sounds so achingly familiar falling from those perfect lips. It is unbearable.

“You’re injured,” he says, struggling to keep the pain out of his voice, “I have bandages here, but I need to clean the wound first.” A part of him is expecting, hoping, almost, that Sauron would snap at him, attack him, bolt away, and he would not have to stare into those broken eyes for a second longer. And for a moment, that wild desire to escape does flicker across Sauron’s expression. But he blinks it away. He is smart enough to realize that he probably wouldn’t get far if he tried to run, and nods agreeably instead. Eonwe bites back a flash of fearful disappointment. “Hold still,” he murmurs.

It is easy enough to clean the wound. Luckily, whoever had inflicted it had missed any vital organs. Eonwe tries to quell down the thought that it had probably been one of his friends. Just concentrate on wrapping the bandages, he tells himself. Ignores the trembling of your hands. This is purely medical procedure. Harder than taking care of the wound, perhaps, is being so near to Sauron. His gaze rests with utter absorption on Eonwe, those eyes burning with an intensity that is distinctly uncomfortable for whoever it is concentrated on. Eonwe can feel it smouldering against his skull. Sauron is irritatingly attractive. Even now, with cheeks drained of color and blood smeared everywhere, even with his form distorted by so many scars. His skin is warm to the touch, pale as ivory. He looks like a porcelain doll. Oddly delicate. Eonwe cannot resist the urge to stroke his fiery hair, an old protectiveness welling up in his chest. Mairon had not been this pale, nor this lean, in Eonwe’s memory. The suffering that he must have endured to have his fea ripped apart so thoroughly… who could have done this? There was only one answer, because only a Vala could cause such agony, and the Valar would never dream of doing such a thing. This thought only makes the feelings of guilt resurface in full ardor.

"Are you in pain?" He asks eventually, once he is finished with the bandages. Sauron shakes his head.

“No,” he says, though the rasping tremble in his voice makes it clear that he’s lying. He had always been a stubborn fool. Eonwe allows a sad smile to linger across his face.

“It’s alright if you are. Your fea was shredded. I cannot imagine how that must have felt.”

“It felt fine,” Sauron says. His voice is aloof, a thinly veiled warning underlying his words. Eonwe ignores it.

“Who did this? Morgoth?” The change in Sauron is immediate. Bitter sparks flare in his words, and it is a captivating sight, like glowing lava exploding from the depths of the earth, finally allowed to burst into the light after years of darkness, trapped under the earth with naught for company but the bubbling streams of molten metal and gold.

“That is not his name. Do not tell me you would stoop so low as those wretched Noldor.” Eonwe recoils back.

“Sorry. Melkor. Did he do this?” The feel of his enemy’s name on his tongue is heavy and cloying, but Mairon’s frown is not swayed. There is something akin to sadness, perhaps, glinting in his eyes, the twinkle of stars that fall into welcoming darkness. Eonwe has never seen tears in Sauron’s eyes before. The sight is… enthralling. He cannot look away.

“He did not,” Sauron says. “It was you, you and Manwe and all the rest of the Valar.”

“What?” It is all Eonwe can say. Impossible. He would never, and neither would any of the Valar; they were just, fair rulers, they would understand that Sauron was manipulated, they would welcome him back with open arms. The mere implication makes him sick. He swallows down a wave of nausea. “I- I would never-”

“No. Not on purpose. But you did it, nonetheless.” He was as eloquent as ever. The lyrical lilt of Valarin still hung like a ghost about his voice, but now it sounded far rougher around the edges. Hoarse. The kind of damage that came from screaming in pain. Eonwe feels a sudden determination to keep him safe from now on. He holds the Maia’s close in his arms, and although Sauron growls softly in warning, he does not try to get away.

“I’m really sorry,” Eonwe murmurs. “How, though? I didn’t see you the entire time.” Sauron is deathly quiet. The silence stretches out like a living thing, curling into cracks and filling the cave with its choking presence. It is a dense shroud, impossible to peer through. Eventually Sauron tears it apart with cold words.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m fine now. Let go of me.” Eonwe is loath to do so, to let go of the warmth that emanates from the fire Maia, but he does anyway. Sauron shrugs his shirt back on, the brown fabric a contrast against his pale skin. He stands up shakily. For a moment it appears as though he would be able to manage, and he will stride out into the mountain air and Eonwe will never see him again, but he inhales a struggling breath, and falls. Eonwe jumps up to catch him in a flurry of bright feathers. “Fuck,” Sauron swears, and there is the cold gleam of hatred in his eyes. Whether it is directed at himself or Eonwe is a mystery.

“You shouldn’t stand. Come back to the camp with me, they can heal you better than I can.”

“They hate me.”

“They won’t refuse help to someone who needs it.” Sauron snarls softly.

“I don’t need it. I will be fine. Go away.”

“No. I’m not leaving you again.”

“Lovely saviour complex you’ve got going there."

"No, I just have morals. Not that you'd know anything about that." He cannot help the bitter sadness that seeps into his voice. Though logic tells him that he is making a mistake, he cannot in his right mind let go of this beautiful Maia, not again, not after watching him leave once. “I’m sorry, Mairon,” he says softly, “Please. The Valar will pardon you. Valinor is a sight to behold. You can live with me, it will be as it was before. You will be forgiven. They… they will heal your scars.” Mairon swallows thickly. It is impossible to tell what he is thinking, whether the wavering of his breathing is from pain or indecision. He looks up, eventually, and there is a strange light in his eyes, filaments that run in fissured shapes over unreadable irises.

“Fine,” he says hoarsely. “Fine. I’ll come.” Eonwe can hardly believe it. He had hoped, but in his heart he had always known that Mairon would forever be as stubborn as Aule. He should not have been convinced. This felt wrong. Like the person that he should have been was cracking apart, and the creature inside the shell was all wrong, beaten and bruised and flinching at the slightest touch. Eonwe frowns. Yet the hope of having his once closest friend by his side once more overwhelms any sense of doubt or logic. It is foolish of him. He will probably regret it. But now Mairon is looking up at him like a lost puppy, and he swears he will protect this Maia till the world heaves its last breath.

Everyone in the camp is far too busy to pay attention to the two of them. Their eyes linger on Eonwe for perhaps a second, acknowledging his leadership, but then their gazes slide away once more, concentrating on whatever task is required of them. Some of them are mourning. These ones do not look up at all. Eonwe wonders if Mairon feels any regret, watching the tears of those who loved the dead. He must. Certainly if he was forced into his role, as Eonwe suspects. Mairon keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the ground, too concentrated on walking forwards without leaning too hard against Eonwe to care much about anyone else. The pointed smell of blood hangs heavy in the air. In some places, the ground is covered in it, heaps of bodies smeared with viscera and dust piled at random intervals. Crows peck at the dead flesh. Their caws fill the air, an ominous undertone to their voices. They seem to speak, almost. Mairon shudders.

“Can you understand them?” Eonwe whispers, watching one of the largest ones tear a chunk of flesh out of someone’s arms. Blood is speckled over its shining feathers. Mairon nods. “What do they say?”

“Nothing of importance.” He stops, suddenly, tilting his head. His gaze meets Eonwe’s. “No. That is a lie. They are apologizing to me, in the words of another.” He will say no more of it, and Eonwe does not push, not wanting to break this cold companionship that they seem to have built. It is the first time that Mairon has mentioned anyone else that he may have been close to, other than Morgoth, because Morgoth would never, ever apologize. Not even when Manwe wept at his brother’s feet. Had Mairon friends, there? He had not had many in Valinor, except for Eonwe, and perhaps Olorin, if he was being loose in his definition of friendship. What about a lover? A family? What had life been like, behind those dark iron walls? It was jarring, to realize that he knew so little about his best friend. This would have to be changed. They would have all the time in the world now. Eonwe smiles softly at the flutter of joy in his heart. His mind had already strayed to thoughts of picnics under moonlight, of watching Mairon work at the forges, of exploring Yavanna’s gardens together. It had been too long. Eternity would be theirs, exactly as they had once dreamed of.

**Author's Note:**

> And then Mairon finds out what they did to Melkor and runs away the next morning without saying goodbye :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments/kudos are much appreciated <3


End file.
